Sky-high
by victorialmao
Summary: The gong sounds loudly in my ears and around the arena. Readily I sprint behind me into the woods, which seems like the best cover but I now suppose this is where everybody will go; there is no turning back. —The Fox-faced girl from District Five would always run from her obstacles. But The Hunger Games are inescapable. T for violence. X
1. Green eyeliner

I attempted to remain as upright as I could while being enclosed from my family to an already large selection of girls whom were also fifteen years young. I inspected my fingers, my index finger still tingling of the recent blood withdrawn from it. Remaining a straight face, I deceived the others of a sense of bravery behind the wild-running thoughts and emotions inside my head; although I was trying to make myself believe it more than anything other. Our Capitol escort, I don't quite have memory of her name, rose from her seating on the makeshift stage and made long, slow strides until she was adjacent the microphone, which still echoed out the audio of her absurdly tall and abstract heeled footwear. I had never worn heeled shoes before, let alone anything alike to the woman standing before us has pale blue satiny and unblemished skin, metallic green eyeliner, which wings out at the corner of her iridescent eyes along with a vivid turquoise voluminously curled wig. The district's citizens appeared awfully bland when compared to people of the Capitol.

This morning my mother and I had carefully unpacked one of her old lemon-yellow frocks of her youth. The fabric had faded to a paler yellow colour and covered with a thin layer of dust, which my mother lovingly and cautiously wiped away with her wrinkled and sun-beaten hands. The frock had a white rounded collar; with it I would wear my new white socks with lace frills adorning them and black leather footwear with long laces that I repeatedly tripped upon. When the frock was on, my mother laced a worn, brown leather bracelet around my thin, pale wrist. I analysed it to discover a small metal '5' hanging from the leather. I clutched it close to my heart.

"As long as you wear it, you will be safe."  
My mother had then stood, straightened her dress and kissed my forehead. A peculiar Capitol accent abruptly ended my thoughts.

"Welcome, welcome everybody! Happy Hunger Games! Before we begin the excitement, let us show everybody a lovely, lovely video from the Capitol!"  
Everybody murmured unhappily as the large screen began to play the video they played to the twelve districts every year at the reaping. The film was about the rebellion of the thirteen districts towards the Capitol's cruel system and the overpowering of the Capitol over the districts, causing the destruction of district thirteen in the process. When the Capitol ended the rebellion, they birthed an annual Hunger Games; to remind people of the control the Capitol has over the districts. During the Hunger Games, the boy tribute and the girl tribute from each district must fight to the death until a solitary victor remains standing. District five's escort strode across the dusty, quite unstable stage in her abstract heeled shoes to one of the large, shiny glass balls containing thousands of slips.  
"Ladies first, shall we?" she implied.

Her perfectly manicured fingers danced lightly around inside the glass ball before gently selecting a slip of paper. Holding up the slip, she did her strange walk retreating back to the microphone to announce the female tribute from district five.  
I felt the Earth had slowed in its motion as the name of the tribute was read clearly. There was no mistaking who was selected as tribute in the seventy-fourth annual Hunger Games.

* * *

_**Please don't hate me.. but it looked a lot longer on a word document, OK? **_


	2. Acknowledgement

I had the ability to sense everybody's eyes flicker across to me. There was a sharp cry from my younger sister but everything else surrounding me was suspended in an intense silence.  
The silence broke and the said words rippled around the crowd like a pebble being dropped into still waters.

"Well aren't you coming up? Don't be shy!"

I took cautious steps towards the makeshift platform; I tried to turn my mind to anything other than what belongs ahead, so instead I began focusing on preventing scuffing my leather shoes on the gravel. I ascended the steps that creaked beneath my touch and turned to face the whole of district five. My fiery braid fell behind my shoulders as I tilted my head upwards in a search of confidence.  
"Now for the gentlemen,"  
Our escort strode towards the other identical glass ball, this time holding the boy's slips. To the Capitol these names on paper must mean nothing to them; but every piece of paper being tossed around the ball has a family, friends and individual life behind it. When called upon, the male appeared to be around the same age as me. His hair was tousled and his black eyes were wild with fear as he slowly rose up to join the Capitol escort and me.  
"Shake hands,"  
I lightly hold his hand for a second. It's cold and clammy, almost a replica of mine. I breathe the dry air deeply; inhaling it slowly into my lungs thinking of how these will be my last breaths in district five. Somehow I know and acknowledge the fact I will not be returning to the pale faces of this district that supplies power for the Capitol, even though we barely ever have any electricity here for our own use.

·  
My mother and younger sister sit with me in the silence of the aged Justice building. Both my mother's weathered hands are clasped tightly around my own, my sister curled up snugly on my calves, knees drawn tightly to her chest. It feels like a barrier has been placed around us and I am safe in my mother's grip. I wish to close my eyes to go back to being the small girl in the meadows sitting with her sister, crafting wreaths of wild flowers in the late afternoon. I glance around the small room to the boy tribute. He is making whimpering sounds while his little sister plays with his hair and I think of how utterly awful it must be to not know what's happening and for your brother to never return to district five. I don't know where his parents are. I look back into my younger sister's amber and grey eyes, soon followed by peering into my mother's grey eyes, which are like black holes. The tears stream soundlessly down our pallid faces, sliding from their grip into nothingness. Peacekeepers abruptly invade the space and guided my family out of the room abruptly. My sister's wailing grows stronger and my mother becomes frail but they obey the Peacekeepers and retreat from the Justice building.  
"I love you," was all that I could choke out from my suddenly tight, dry throat, the end of the sentence squeaking slightly. I hope they heard.

* * *

**_What did the farmer say when he couldn't find his tractor? Where's my tractor._**

**_Har had har. I had no idea what to say here so I thought I'd tell a joke. :3_**


	3. Wildflower wreathes

The rocking of the train lulled me into a restless sleep. I am awoken early by our Capitol escort in her peculiar accent and tapping the wooden door with her long, sharp fingernails.  
"Up, up, up! We have a very, very huge day ahead!"  
I bury and cocoon my face beneath the blanket. The previous evening was a blur and pains my head to attempt to remember anything other than making acquaintance with our mentor. I drag myself out of the warmth to realise my discarded frock is not in sight from where I abandoned it at night. I pace over to the wooden door to see a pair of trousers and outstandingly, a thin silken tunic, finer than any fabric I had encountered in my lifetime. I touch the sleeve with light fingertips but as I do a small note falls from a fold in the material.  
_'Shower then meet us for breakfast in the dining carriage wearing the clothing we supply.'_

I tread over to the bathroom and view all the fancy controls for the shower. I press a couple of sensor buttons and step into the small glass room to be washed. I have never had a shower before to wash, let alone in warm water unless we bathed in a bucket of boiled water which all of us used. This sensation reminded me of the scene of my sister and I making wild flower wreaths when the raindrops started falling. We immediately thought to run home, but this rain was warm and fresh, luring us back to the beautiful scene.

I retreated from the shower and bathroom back into my compartment where I dressed in the clothes they gave me. I looked down at myself. 'This is too fancy for my liking,' I thought. Reluctantly I walk through the sections into the dining carriage where nobody notices my entry until I am seated.  
"Ah, there you are. We were wondering if you'd ever come,"  
I make no effort to reply to my mentor's comment, instead picking up my utensils to eat, but easily tire to it and resort to eating with my fingers. I catch our escort's eye and she purses her plump, purple lips at my eating demeanour. I ignore her disapproval to my habits simply because the meal is delicious. I catch the male tribute smirking, which upturns the corners of my mouth ever so slightly. Sausages covered in a rich, creamy sauce, spiced ham and a thick slice of smooth, white bread spread with goat's cheese. I absolutely adore goat's cheese. To wash down the food was a cup of orange juice in a decorative glass. Light conversation was attempted after the meal.  
"I'll be your mentor through your Hunger Games." Says our mentor, Vincent, he said his name was. "Here's what will happen. First you'll train in the centre and then you'll each have a private session with the game-makers to determine your training score and your odds of winning the Hunger Games. You'll then go on into the arena to fight for a victor."  
Vincent has dark brown hair and grey eyes. He has quite a disheveled appearance, visible stubble on his jaw and thick eyebrows. A long, puckered scar runs down the side down his face from his temple to his jaw. His leg is missing from his left knee down and uses a crutch in the crook of his arm-pit to walk. I assume this is a result of his games. People leave the Hunger Games with scars; both physical and mental.

Both the boy tribute and myself remained quiet. Vincent laughed coldly.  
"Quiet bunch, aren't you? Vincent implied. "Prudencia, may I have a word?"

The two disappeared a few carriages down. I could hear a powerful voice that belongs to Vincent, quite muffled by the wall separating us.  
"Look at them in there; we have no hope! I can see it in their eyes. Won't make it two minutes in like this, it pains me to see two awfully innocent children from district five die each year! Do you realise how utterly hard it is for me to see this?"  
"They are the reaped tributes. I can't change that; I'm sorry, Vincent." A quieter voice replied.  
"They're not even speaking to me! How am I meant to figure out their strong points and weaknesses? Hopeless. Might as well kill them now than let them into the arena."  
"I'm sure we'll work things out,"

·

A day has passed since I last spoke to my family, not just my family but to anybody. I have locked everything out into compete solitude. I have also discovered a lot about the other passengers. I learnt that our escort's name is Prudencia Garnet and has a strange fascination for anything sparkly. She's drawn to it like moths to a light. I also found out that our mentor is Vincent Holmes and before he won the 51st annual Hunger Games he had worked in a large factory until it closed down due to being an unsafe environment after an electrical explosion. He had then begged for food and was entered several times for Tesserae, having a total of fifty-seven entries into the glass ball. He was labeled a bloodbath tribute but lasted a long time afterwards, making it into the final five. He was then attacked by muttations while hovering near the outskirts of the Cornucopia. Rabbits as white as snow with teeth that were razor sharp and several inches long. His left leg was shredded and a large gash was opened on his face.

Claudius Templesmith announced a feast at dawn, so he dragged himself into the open, pretending to be a deceased body on the ground near the table. To his dismay, when the table rose suddenly from the ground it was stocked high with weapons. All four of the other tributes fought and when there was a solitary victor who believed they had just become the victor of the 51st annual Hunger Games, Vincent threw a spear into the off-guard tribute from the table, winning the The boy tribute's name is Duncan, whose parents both worked in the same factory as Vincent but weren't as lucky as to escape the explosion's occurrence. He and his younger sister were living in a community home where there was never enough to fill everybody's stomach. My father had died in that explosion three weeks before my younger sister was born.

* * *

_**Ermahgerd. This one's even smaller than the others. Or maybe it's not. I can't really tell.**_


	4. An illusion

The lights shone brightly and the buildings stood tall and proud as we reached the outskirts of the Capitol. People stopped to stare at us as though we were a bizarre zoo attraction. The Capitol was quite a scary place for the way appeared to the way they acted and spoke intimidated me. In the nightfall there are still many people around the streets whereas at home it's deserted after sunset. When we arrived to our accommodation at the remake centre, I again discard my clothing on the floor and dress in luxurious bedclothes for another night of failed attempts to sleep. My mind still spins uncontrollably and suddenly I feel sick to the stomach. I managed to tire myself from overthinking and drift off into sleep but always snapped back awake often, sweating uncontrollably from my nightmares.

_'Suddenly the arena sprang alive for everybody to run straight to the Cornucopia. I sprinted as fast as I was able but my legs were heavy and the terrain around me was sinking. I grasped a backpack but I had been knocked to the ground in the blur of tributes. I was pinned to the ground unable to breathe. I attempted to lift my legs and arms to rise from the ground but my limbs were glued in place when I am grabbed and dragged. My head makes forceful contact with something hard and a searing pain in my abdomen as I see a girl stabbing my stomach; piercing the skin and blood rising from the wound. The pain lifts into a tingling sensation and I enter a trance when the sounds almost become rhythmic.'_

The rhythmic pattern becomes a rapping at my door and as I open it stands Prudencia.  
"You must get ready! Here, put on this robe and we'll meet your stylist and preparation team."  
My fingers numbly take the robe from her and she's gone in a dazzle of blue curls. The robe is made of silk and shimmers when I walk past the mirror; I gaze at my reflection that slumps awkwardly and my face which stares blankly at me with dark under-eye circles, hollow cheeks, even paler skin and a wild mess of fiery red hair of all the restless nights I've faced. I slip out through my door towards to a dining room to eat breakfast and to meet my stylist and preparation team. When I arrive everybody else has already finished their food and I just have a piece of baked bread accompanied by a large egg spiced with ground pepper. Prudencia comes in and claps her hands together.  
"Lovely! You've already eaten. Follow this way darling to meet your team,"  
I followed Prudencia, always one step behind her. I notice that in her hair are many tiny iridescent pearls and birds.

Inside the remake centre I make acquaintance with my preparation team. I discover their names are Hera, Tabithia and Apollo. I am made to remove my garment followed by every piece of hair below my head pulled out of its place. My skin tingles as I am coated in lotion, my fingernails filed into ovals then meticulously coated in a glossy clear polish. Hera's dead straight baby-pink hair brushes against her pearly back as she massages a white cream into my own red locks. I peered into a mirror as I slowly transformed into somebody I am not; my dishevelled hair silken and vibrant, my skin smooth but still red from the agitation. I didn't have any flaws that made me unique.

"Cyren requested we address your appearance somewhat normal before he sees you," Apollo said in a quiet manner.

This somewhat startled me when Apollo spoke. He didn't have the quirky Capitol accent but one that I could curl up and be read to with. He sounded like home, although I could assure myself that home is just an illusion.

The trio exited the room a few moments before my stylist Cyren; I assume his name is, entered. He circled me a few moments.

"Sit," He said.

We seated ourselves in plush couches directly across from each other, a highly polished glass table between us.  
"As your district is Power, Avia and I have discussed you wearing large, silver sequined headdresses to represent the wires and power. You'll be wearing body garments of the same. Your costumes will somewhat represent a solar panel, reflecting light when you move. It will be marvellous!"

I nod slightly with forced interest. I did not want to be a solar panel. I did not want to be a piece in their games. Cyren stands and walks over to a sleek, black cabinet and removes a sparkling garment and matching headpiece from the reflective interior. I almost smile as I think of how Prudencia loves sparkly things. He slips the thin fabric over my head before placing the large circular headdress upon it. I do admit that I looked quite breathtaking. I twirled around and the light caught on all the tiny sequins. Cyren lead me from the room into a lobby. The boy tribute was already there, fingers knotted together in a costume identical to mine. The other tributes glanced at each other, looking around as to who is intimidated and who is not. The district eleven girl looked smaller than ever against her larger, stronger opponents. We were seated in chariots and the horses were set in motion.

They trod out in a tamed manner into the city centre. I gasped at the sheer amount of Capitol residents here. There must be around one hundred thousand citizens watching us with eager eyes. I reached out my thin arm and waved my hand out hesitantly towards the many people gathered. The crowd roared loudly and I wondered what spurred the outbreak until I glanced behind me and saw the district twelve tributes on fire. The horses continued forward rhythmically, coming to a halt in a wide arc. President Snow's voice boomed dominantly through the microphone.  
"Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favour," he said, all too cheerfully.

* * *

**_I'm sorry if anything is inaccurate. At the time of writing this chapter, a copy of the Hunger Games was not available. Please just let me know if there is though, I could fix a few minor details. _**


	5. While you can

"Darlings! You were fabulous; everybody loved you! Let's go to your floor of the training centre." Prudencia exclaimed and clapped her smooth hands together. She swiftly tapped a silver button with the number '5' engraved on the circular surface with her long, manicured fingernails and the elevator shot upwards. The golden metallic doors slid open soundlessly to an astoundingly large living space and I gasped. A dining table already stocked with numerous delicacies stood in the centre. Small cakes and coloured jellies surrounding a flowing chocolate fountain, which accompanied a large, glass bowl of strawberries. Large, abstract chandelier lights hung over our heads and cast a soft glow over all the décor in the spacious area. Through tall, floor-length windows, a breathtaking view of the Capitol caused me to gasp again. The houses were soft pastel shades of orange, pink and yellow with plush grass that seemed too green to be realistic. A fountain spurted out water into a deep, pebbly, rectangular pool. Prudencia abruptly interrupted my admiration by grasping my hand and leading me towards an enclosed area.  
"You will be sleeping in here! Isn't it just gorgeous?" Prudencia gushed dreamily. She hesitated before adding quickly, "enjoy it while you can."  
·

The training centre is a large complex for the tributes to train skills in before they enter the games. The game-makers observed us from a rich, pink compartment embedded in the wall. I wore a black and red striped shirt with a '5' on the back and on each sleeve at the shoulder. I wandered unsurely to each survival station, like the training leader, Atala, told us not to ignore. I learnt how to light a fire from numerous things, tie basic knots and do first-aid. I swiftly scaled the climbing frames with agility and back down. A large screen caught my eye. Black plants on a white screen. I touched the pad beneath the screen with my fingertips, effortlessly completing the station. I thought it was easy, but I now had the need to face my biggest complication. Combat skills. I picked up a knife; short, but with a deadly curve at the end. I walked over to a dummy and cut a line along the stomach with the back edge with the flick of my wrist. No more than one millimetre deep into the rubber flesh. I sigh. I could not even be vicious as to a dummy. I would never have the ability to kill a real human being. A person with a name, a family, a life story. I set down the knife again in the metal frame. I tap my fingers against my thigh and brush the stray red hairs, which had been loosened from my pony-tail away from my face. I glanced over at the tributes from district one, two and four. What some people call the careers. They train their whole childhood for these games and form an alliance in the games to pick off the weaker tributes. The blonde district one boy forcefully throws a spear over fifty metres into the centre of the target in the dummy's heart with ridiculous accuracy. The district two boy cuts hearts and heads effortlessly, definitely fatal wounds to the victims if they were real. That is all it takes to direct my view back to my slender legs and diminish all hope of surviving the Hunger Games.

* * *

**_In case of you wondering, it's named Sky-high because of the career's pyramid of food which is blown 'sky-high'. _**


	6. Tousled fire

The boy tribute and I sat together in silence outside the training centre in another lobby. The tributes of district six to twelve sit nearby. The boy from district four exited the centre, red curls bouncing around his ears. My name was called. I stood, bit my lip and walked over towards the entrance where two doors slid open, allowing my passage into my private session. The game-makers watched from their compartment intently, sipping red wine from long-stemmed crystal glasses. I recited my name and district in a shaky voice that cracked as I did so. I then retreated to the climbing frames. I clutched a tree limb and swung my waist around the branches and clung onto vinery. I manoeuvred my body around the dense foliage almost as if I was in flight; I passed through each tree with smooth movements and I threw myself from the canopy onto the ground with feet like feathers. I sprinted away from the course. I focused on breathing evenly as I weaved and darted through the other stations before I reached my destination. I felt my fingers close around the cold, heavy metal of a knife. I paused for a moment, poised with my arm still outstretched. I remained as still as I possibly could manage, my quickly paced breathing slowed until one could barely see my chest lower and rise, before suddenly sprinting forward, jumping in the air and attacking a dummy, my body manoeuvring around the lifeless opposition and achieving deep slices in the victim's rubbery flesh as I dodge it's own non-existent attempts. I stop. I slink away soundlessly before composing myself and standing with my head tilted towards the game-makers.  
"You are dismissed." Seneca Crane's sickening accent tells me.

I turn to leave, wiping all visible emotion from my face before the other tributes can read my fear.

·

I sit barefoot and cross-legged on the soft, brown, leather sofa staring at Caesar Flickerman read out the private training scores. The careers all received high scores of eight to ten unsurprisingly, before Duncan's name was pronounced in Caesar's optimistic voice.

"…With a training score of, five."  
I stole a glance at him. He was expressionless, more immersed in lacing and unlacing his shiny boots repetitively. My head snapped back towards the polished screen as my name was read.  
"…With a training score also of, five."  
This was expected. I had no material talent that differs from not being seen. The game-makers want bloodthirsty, confronting killers and not skinny girls who will hide in colliding with another tribute. I hid my face behind a thin curtain of my red hair, which just contributes to my growing agitation of always escaping things I don't like. I always run away if I cannot handle it, hide my fears. I peer upwards to observe everybody looking at me. The colour returned to my facial features too quickly and was soon the same shade as my hair.

We ate our dinner in utter silence. Nobody dared discuss our odds of survival because all know the odds with never be in our favour.  
"I'm done." I say, pushing out my chair, which screeches on the marble tiling.  
I am exhausted of overthinking everything and my head feels very heavy. I discard my white shirt and black trousers on the wooden floor before crawling into my bed and cocooning my body in the silken bed sheets, pulling the fine fabric up to my chin.

When I awake my limbs are stiff and my hair is a tousled mass of fire. By the angle of the sun I recognise early afternoon. Why had I been left to sleep so long? I barely comb my fingers through the thin strands and remove myself from the bedding before my preparation team burst through the entrance and whisk me into a wicker stool. I am soaked in a potent concoction with the texture of wet cement. It scratches my delicate skin, but when I am retrieved from the mixture my skin is as soft as a baby duck's underwing. My nails are filed back into ovals and my red tresses are styled into an up-do with wisps falling elegantly down my shoulders. I now remember that tonight are our interviews with Caesar Flickerman. This year he is painted a rich blue, which is not as disturbing as last year's games, where his eyelids and lips were painted a blood red. My preparation team leave my bedroom in silence. A thick stillness falls over the area, which is broken minutes later by Cyren's porcelain white smile. He carries a large black bag that must contain my dress for this evening.  
"May I see?" I ask cautiously, obviously eyeing the dark bag.

Cyren unzips the side and inside contains a layered blue strapless dress, which would come to around my knees, the top shaped like a heart with a tiny bow in the centre of the heart sides meeting. I stand up straight and step my legs into the layers of silk and netting. He pulls the frock up over my waist and pulls the zipper back up. He firmly secures a thick, golden neckband around my throat. Heeled shoes of the same colour and I wonder how I'd ever walk in them while more accessories are adorned my outfit, which is simply beautiful.

* * *

**_I've always wondered whether Seneca Crane's name is pronounced 'Seh-neh-kah' or 'Seh-nee-kah'. _**


	7. Situational analysis

I sit awkwardly in my assigned seat of those arranged in an arc. The other tributes occupy the remaining seats and are roused in district order for the position of a five-minute interview with Caesar Flickerman, sitting in a white leather bowl chair each. I obsessively touch my hair, the ringlets tumbling effortlessly from my pinned up hair like flames flickering around my head. The minutes passed quickly, district one… then two… then three and four when Caesar introduces me, my cue to be interviewed. I sit lightly in the soft leather, crossing my thin legs and placing my hands of the same on my exposed knees. "It's exceptionally wonderful to have you here with us." Caesar's tone radiates warmth throughout the cold stage and into the Capitol streets, which are teeming with residents eager to capture a view of the tributes of the 74th annual Hunger games.  
"Nice to meet you, Caesar." I say. I try to sound friendly, to emit the same likability as him but I am audibly cold.  
"So tell me, what did you feel when you were selected tribute?" He leans his elbows on the pants of his midnight blue suit, his chin on his hands.  
"Scared." I refuse to add to my statement, but yet coaxes me to respond to more questions.  
"Do you think you could win this?"  
"I think I can." I pronounce slowly.  
"How is this so?"  
"I will always analyse the situation and apply myself," I counter.

"I'd like to see this. Best of luck, it was absolutely lovely to meet you." Caesar clasps my colourless hands in both of his, draws them to his face to touch against his blue lips. The buzzer sound is slightly audible through the civil applause. I stand and return to my position in the arc. It is the most discreet expression that is outstanding. A tiny smile, obscured by my curled tresses, threatens upon my thin lips as Duncan flashes his thumbs upwards in my direction when walking to my previous location alongside Caesar Flickerman. This irritates me and I mask my face with my usual expressionless composure. I will be deceased in a matter of days. Twenty-three of us circled here. All dead, all gone. Never to recommence life, limbs stilled, arriving stiff and cold in wooden boxes to our districts.

·

A meal was set beautifully on the exquisite dining table. Prudencia, Vincent, Duncan and I were seated around the feast, Duncan and I conscious of savouring the limited amount of rich Capitol dishes we have left to endure before we are sent into the arena. I pick up a small, roasted bird with my fingers and inspect it; crisp and browned. I insert a portion into my mouth. Flavoursome orange sauce floods my mouth and I cling to the luxury of the Capitol. After enduring my last delicious Capitol meal, I place down my silver cutlery on the dining table soundlessly.  
"I'm going to rest," I state and push out my seat.

"Then I'll never see you again!" Prudencia wails suddenly.

This is quite true. I doubt she'd be awake when I depart for my certain death. She hops over in her heeled shoes and reaches out two thin, satiny and blue arms. She dabs at her lengthy, purple eyelashes with a pink lacy handkerchief to prevent turquoise streaks making an appearance on her skin. She embraces me and I remain still, quite unsure of what to do, so I attempt a smile that appears to be more of a grimace. I didn't realise how escorts become so fond of their tributes. They shouldn't. They are the ones that send them to their death.

I lie on my side, the silk sheets covering to just below my shoulders. My stomach churns and my head throbs. Maybe it was an error to consume all the food I did. When I awaken dawn hasn't broken. I slide out of the sheets and pad over to the window. The Capitol is huge, adorned with tall, pastel buildings and sleek cars roaming the paved roads. I am startled when I feel Cyren clutch my hands in both of his, his olive skin slightly glittering with the golden sparkly lotion he wears upon it. He sits me down on the edge of the plush bedding, brushing out my red hair and tautly tying it in two braided buns. Cyren flashes his painfully perfect teeth in a quick smile.  
"Fox ears. As I've observed you're sly like a fox."  
He assists me dressing in a simple, brown V-necked shirt and bulky black trousers of a thin material with numerous pockets. Soft, lace-up leather boots with rubber soles.  
"Does everything fit well?" He asks.  
I run to the far edge of the room, away from the window. I jump up and down; swing my arms about above my head. I nod my head once. He holds my shoulders with sturdy hands and directs me towards the elevator where he presses a metallic silver button with 'roof' engraved on the circular surface. He exits the elevator before it shoots upwards. Of course, stylists don't use the tribute hovercraft.

The doors enclose me from him and I am directed to the roof where a bulky yet sleek black hovercraft perches in the air without a sound, a ladder extended from the big form. I place my icy hands on the bottom rungs when I am frozen in place by an invisible force and lifted into the hovercraft where I am allocated a seat. Some other tributes claim seats, others still vacant. After a matter of minutes all the seats are occupied by tributes. I stare out the small, circular window across from me, underneath is the district one girl, typically beautiful with radiant blonde hair tied into two plaits. Soon, the windows black out, obviously because the arena is in a secret location and at the same time a woman wearing sterile clothes and gloves materialises from another compartment armed with a thick syringe. A girl with a single, dark braid asked what it was and the woman replied as her tracker. Of course, wouldn't want to lose a tribute in the arena. The woman arrived in front of me.  
"Give me your arm," she said in a strict demeanour.  
I reluctantly extend my arm which she grips and inserts the needle of the syringe into the underside, near the elbow. I wince as it punctures the skin and a blue light glows from beneath. The woman withdrew the pointed object from my delicate tissue and in residue was left a hard bump of which I keep nervously touching with light fingertips. I erase all visible emotions from my face yet again.

* * *

**_Favourite chapter to write! I spell things differently because I am from Australia; (hence the favourite/favorite)._**


	8. Golden lips

I enter the launch room to be greeted by Cyren. He pulls me into a tight embrace without a word leaving either of our lips. He has an aroma of lemons lingering on his body. He holds my slender shoulders at his arms length.  
"Forty seconds," a computerised female voice rings into the silent room.  
My chin trembles and Cyren notices. He draws a small item from his pocket and gestures for me to raise my arm. Curiously, I obey and he ties a familiar small, brown leather bracelet around my bony wrist with a metal '5' hanging from it.  
"Thirty seconds,"  
"Thank-you," I whisper as he drops his hands back onto my shoulders.  
He presses his golden lips against my forehead and walks away silently, before returning with my jacket; a weightless brown thing, which inside is lined with red stripes.  
"Twenty seconds,"  
"You're more intellectual than they are; have faith in yourself," Cyren said evenly, sliding my jacket onto my shoulders. "Analyse the situation and consider your options. Do what you need to do and lie low. Be elusive. Make them forget you're a threat."  
"But I'm not a thr—" He cuts my sentence off before I can complete it by placing a finger to my lips.  
"You are. I believe in you."

"Ten seconds,"  
I want to scream. To run and hide where nobody can find me. I can't do that in the arena; I may feel alone but I am always being spectated.

He tucks a loose flame of hair into one of my fox ears and I step onto the metal plate that is my fate. Instantly after both my feet are secured onto the plate a glass tube slides around me and my hands immediately fly up to press to the substance that has divided me from my stylist. Cyren places his hands over my small ones through the glass when the plate begins to ascend and my stomach lurches. I am in complete darkness and my hands drop limply to my sides. I close my eyes and when I reopen them it is because of the scent of pine drifting into my nostrils. The air is clear and I feel free like when I go to the meadow in district five to escape the dullness of factories and building clotting the landscape. District five. My home. Both are an illusion. I clutch my stomach and feel as if everything I ate in the Capitol is about to make a reappearance. Wind blows through my hair, bringing forth loose the strands Cyren had tucked into my fox ears in the launch room. All the freedom I feel is all an illusion. Just an illusion. I am a piece in their games. I am going to die. I am encased in an invisible force-field surrounded by twenty-three people who want my blood. My thoughts are interrupted by a deep man's voice counting down from sixty seconds. I size up my opponents. Some show wild terror, others smirking.  
"Fifty-three… Fifty-two… Fifty-one…"  
I remain expressionless, as I seem so expert at now.  
"Twenty-seven… Twenty-six… Twenty-five…"  
Ok, so on my left is the girl on fire; the one who questioned about the tracker. On my other side is a boy I don't remember much about. District Three? I analyse the scenario. Strongly scented pine trees are behind me. To the left of that is a large lake which appears quite deep. Wind whips at the surface of the water causing small waves to form in the translucent grey liquid. The terrain tilts upwards in a very gradual lean. Over the peak I see nothing but further in the distance are patches of grain. It could be useful if only I came from a district like eleven; no, I have it quite well off in five. I glance to my feet. Hard-packed dirt surrounds my pedestal. I need to focus.  
"Three… Two… One…"  
The gong sounds loudly in my ears and around the arena. Readily I sprint behind me into the woods, which seem like the best cover but I now suppose this is where everybody will go; there is no turning back.

* * *

_**Sorry if this was small — this and chapter 9 were originally a really long chapter morphed together. I thought breaking it up would work well.**_


	9. Artificial sky

Strange plants capture my hands; lowly set tree branches scrape against my face and I frequently trip on exposed tree roots. A blur of foliage blinds me when I collide with something and we both crash to the ground. Another tribute. The girl who was beside me on the plates with the dark braid stares at me with wild eyes. I could strangle her, but I'm frozen. I watch her to see if she'll lunge at me. I can tell she's doing the same. I stumble backwards are run away with agility from the Girl on Fire.  
By the angle of the sun I assume it is around midday. I have been travelling for around an hour, nimbly weaving through trees to escape the other tributes. I desire to rest but I contain it along with the urge to collapse on the ground and sob. I do not dare to stop moving, I just need to find a source of water. By nightfall I am satisfied with the land I have covered and burrow under a thick shrub, surrounding my body with pine needles. I hear the unmistakable boom of a cannon. I draw my knees to my chest and fold my arms around them; clinging to any body heat I have remaining.  
"One… Two… Three…" I count silently to myself as each cannon sounds throughout the arena. This continues until eleven. The Panem anthem then plays and the faces of the fallen tributes haunt the inky sky above me. Duncan is dead. The boy from home who could see past my emotionless mask. I want to scream, to rip out my hair furiously and just cry. I shudder instead.

I tug the zipper of my jacket up higher to protect my neck from the cold that is biting at it. The temperature must have dropped extremely low rapidly, because my hands shake uncontrollably and the colour is drained from all of my visible skin. Thirst tugs at the back of my throat at a craving for water, but if I were to leave this cocoon I would surely and slowly freeze to death. It's a major miracle that I am not freezing to death even here. Another cannon fires, and the girl from district eight hovers in the air. Twelve dead. Hours pass and I haven't seen another tribute since the games commenced. I am utterly chilled to the bone when dawn strains to make an appearance in the cloudless void of a night sky, specked with stars. You can rarely see stars in district five, the smoke and waste filling the sky… It makes me wonder if these are real stars, or just an image projected by the game-makers. I remove myself from my den and attempt rubbing warmth into my icy limbs. I hunger and thirst. I hadn't eaten all yesterday; afraid it would all come back up in anticipation for the games. I walk, testing my muscles. I go left from the direction I came in, hoping to find something to eat or fresh water to drink. A cannon fires unmistakably, then another, meagre seconds later. I shiver; unknowing whether from the cold or that two lives were just ended.

I can't believe my luck when I find a deep green leafy bush dotted with plump, purple berries. I run over to it and, with trembling hands, begin to relieve the berries of their small stems and place them onto the palm of my left hand. Suddenly it dawns on me. "Nightlock," I whisper to myself. I take one, roll it in my fingers and squeeze the plump centre. Blood red juice explodes from inside, splattering on my wrist. I brush the rest of the berries off my hands and stare down at the red stains covering the scratched surfaces. My head feels heavy and dizzy, I stumble backwards and away from the bush. If there is one thing I remember clearly from the training centre, it is edible plants. And this was not edible.

·  
Somehow I manage to find a small brook. It has clear, unsoiled water that I thirstily drink. I feel replenished, except for a gnawing pain in my stomach from my ever-growing hunger. It was a definite disadvantage growing up in five, having no real need to hunt. I usually gathered berries and greens from the meadow that my sister and I played in as young children. I stumbled through the undergrowth in the trees, tendrils catching on my boots, slipping on the moss. In front of me I could see a clearing. The Cornucopia. Had I really travelled in a circle? I saw movement; I assume it's the careers. I scale a tree swiftly, peeking through the foliage staying where I could see, but not be seen. The hard-packed earth around the pedestals had been dug up and patted down noticeably. I draw my gaze higher, to where the district three boy is talking to the careers. He gestures to their supplies, a very tempting pyramid of items that could mean the difference between life and death. He jumps, no that's not the right word… he dances around different items which have been scattered farther from the pyramid itself as like the design of the cornucopia, jumping barrels and crates of cooking oil, food, water and other precious items which are the careers lifeline. I watch him complete the sequence before he hastily retreats the same way… I make a connection between the disturbed earth and the dance around the supplies…  
"It's mined," I whisper to myself.

·

I clap my hand over my mouth, why was I so mediocre as to say that aloud? The constant pain grows more intense as the minutes go by. A small, dark-haired girl views something in the opposite direction to where I am located and alerts the others; two tall muscular boys and a small boy from three. I am confused as to why they let the district three boy into their alliance. I think back to when he was showing the others the sequence to the supplies and realise he must have been the person to reactivate the mines. It all makes sense. District three, technology. He must've arranged them so there is no chain reaction, as if someone attempted to take some items, the remaining of the tribute would be blown to pieces but not blow their lifeline sky-high. The career pack debate bringing the district three boy.  
"We should have someone on guard," The skinnier boy implies.  
"But if anybody tries to steal from us they'd be blown up," The girl counters.  
"Fine, come on we're wasting time." The biggest boy says, carelessly tossing a spear to the district three boy.  
Their argument confirms my suspicion of being mined.

Quietly, I emerge from the trees and into the clearing. I stand on a small, careful square of dirt, then another. I step onto a water container, springing off highly as to avoid a spot I suspect is mined. I manoeuvre my body around scattered supplies of low worth to reach my main goal; the pyramid. I hear a cannon. I freeze; no, it wasn't me, I didn't blow myself up. Must have been what the careers saw. I touch a burlap sack filled with large, red apples. A small grumble is emitted from my stomach. I open it and carefully place two in the spacious pockets of my jacket. A small knife the careers thought to be useless. Lastly I open a wooden crate that is filled with assorted nuts and dried fruit. I take a small handful, taking a small amount as to not be noticed, but enough to survive. I shove the handful into one of the pockets on my trousers and take a large, metal bottle filled with water that I doubt the careers even knew they had. I retreat from the complex pyramid trap and blend into the trees when I hear voices in the distance. I ascend the mossy branches of a tree that cascades vines from the foliage, allowing me decent coverage for the night. With fumbling hands, I take an apple and bite into the crisp flesh, the sweet flavour on my tongue. I eat the entire apple, along with a few nuts and pieces of dried fruit to settle my hunger. Afterwards I am still famished, but I don't dare break into the rest of my precious food supply. I take a long drink from the metal bottle and curl back into a fork in the sturdy tree. Night cloaks the arena, bringing forth again those artificial stars. The girl from district one, the girl from four and the boy from ten. Two careers gone. Had they turned on each other already? No, there was still too many tributes left.

* * *

**_To confirm any suspicion — This is the first time Foxface loots the Pyramid. This is not the time that Katniss watches her. (Obviously because she doesn't overshoot and squeal, falling over the barrel.)_**


End file.
